Something More
by Molly4
Summary: Set in early first season. Seth is tired of being underestimated by everyone around him. When happens when he acts on his frustrations? Giving Seth a little more angst.
1. Default Chapter

Slightly disturbing Seth POV. He's sick of being underestimated. How does he deal?  
  
Disclaimers: I do not own Sandy, Kirsten, Ryan, Luke, Summer, Marissa, or Seth. (Though Adam Brody is welcome in my house any night.) The OC belongs to Fox Broadcasting Company, I am just borrowing it for a little while. I am making no money whatsoever off of this story. I am merely writing it because I have no life.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for some not-so-nice words. Set in early early first season  
  
Something More  
  
By: Molly  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I don't know why I did it.  
  
Wait...maybe I do. Maybe I am sick of people thinking of me as some kind of naive simpleton. Ryan is the street wise kid who's been there and done that. Seth? He's the sheltered Newport kid who wouldn't recognize Life if it bit a hunk out of his ass. Mom and Dad have this picture of me as a pretty much oblivious kid wrapped in his own teenage world. I can see it in their little sighs of half-exasperation, half-amusement they give when they condescendingly explain to me things I already know. They think I'm stupid.  
  
Little do they know. I know things about all of the citizens of Newport that they'd rather keep under wraps. People say things around me like I'm not going to hear it, or not really process it in my mind. Maybe they just don't see me when I'm sitting right in front of their face. Either way, I know things.  
  
Luke Ward, Newport's most cherished preppy, pissed his bed every night until he was twelve. Marissa Cooper, the proverbial girl-next-door, used to make herself throw up after every meal so she could be skinny enough to please her Jenny Craig worshipping mother. And Summer Roberts, despite all her talk to the contrary, is still very much a virgin, and is very much romanticizing what her first time will be like.   
  
And then there's me. I am their secret. Sandy and Kirsten Cohen, Newport's golden couple. You couldn't find two more in love people in the state. Me? I am their accident, their real reason for giving up their lives and partaking in marital bliss. And what really burns my trousers is the fact that they still think I have no clue.  
  
It was really only a matter of putting the pieces together. Mom and Dad have this nasty little habit of getting all nostalgic and babbling on and on about the old days. When I was ten I thought all of their stories were terribly fascinating. Mom would sigh wistfully and talk about life in the back of a mail truck. Nobody to answer to, nobody forcing them to marry and settle down, and work the 9-to-5, bowing humbly before the Man himself, my father's arch enemy. They could be free. Innocently, I asked why they gave up that life for a house and a job and a boring life. And I'll never forget the look they shared; nervous, guilty, and a little sad. All hail the wedlock baby!  
  
There were other hints of course. Grandpa had his nasty habit of bitching and moaning about Dad being a dead weight financially, Jewish, and disgustingly idealistic. Mom always argued that she was in love with him, and Grandpa would raise his eyebrows and look at me meaningfully. "Really?" he'd ask, and Mom would look properly chagrined. Because, even now, Grandpa thrives on the idea that Mom married Dad not because she really found some Jewish kid from Brooklyn to be Mr. Right, but because she was doing the Right Thing, letting me, the baby in question, have two parents and a house.   
  
The last piece of the puzzle came when I had that hideously disturbing and embarrassing sex talk with Dad and I realized that people could have babies even if they didn't want to. I figured it out pretty quickly after that. Because, see, I'm not as sheltered and oblivious as people tend to think I am. They think my cynicism is cute and laugh it off. What the hell would I know? How has the world made me a hardened observer? No, I'm just trying to be a deep thinker. How silly!  
  
So that's why I did it, okay?  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was a regular dinner; nothing especially tasty, but it was digestible in it's own little way. I'd had a pretty shitty week though, for no real identifiable reason; just that crazy Kurt Cobain-esque feeling where the world sucks and you, personally, are by far the biggest asshole on the planet.  
  
Mom and Dad started reliving the Glory Days; God only knows why. I'd heard the stories about a million times before, but Ryan was fascinated by their life on the edge. I have to admit that a lot of it sounds appealing; the absence of authority, the freedom to roam, living amongst a large number of envelopes, all have a certain charm. And then Ryan asked the Question.  
  
"What made you settle down?"  
  
My parents froze up. They shot each other a worried glance. They looked at me and I was playing my part; oblivious, staring down at my plate, shoving peas around and humming softly. I could almost see Dad's look of relief. He'd dodged another bullet. I peeked at Ryan, who'd put everything together and looked embarrassed. But there was an agreement within their eyes that made me snap: Seth can never know. Sweet, little, Seth; it'd break his heart.  
  
"Me," I said quietly, my eyes burning a hole through the china plate that lay before me. "I am the reason they settled down."  
  
Dad dropped his fork. I looked up. His eyebrows rose steadily until I could no longer see them, an amazing feat if you've ever seen the man. Mom became fascinated with the fried chicken on her plate. It was quiet.  
  
"Excuse me," I mumbled, wiping my mouth on the cloth napkin and standing up. I'd fucked things up again.  
  
I walked slowly out of the room and into my own bedroom, where I collapsed headfirst into my pillow.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
And now I'm crying. Dashboard Confessional is playing in the background and I'm crying.  
  
It's not something I do often, mostly because I feel like a stupid baby afterwards, but here I am and I'm crying and I can't stop.  
  
Is it just because I was an accident? I don't know. No. Maybe. It feels like something more. It feels like so much more. The way I put up with things, people who make me feel like shit, who go out of their way to make me feel like shit; I say nothing to them. I let them trample all over me. I have no confidence. All I ever wanted was to be understood...liked...appreciated.   
  
Just once I'd like to be the one to take the first swing. Hey fag. Bam. And Luke goes down. Just to take everything out on that asshole would be so perfect. It would make things so much easier on me for one. I'm sick of being laughed at, and thrown around like I'm nothing. I just want to be respected. I don't want to feel like a worthless loser all the time. I want to be alone. Or loved by more than just my parents.  
  
A knock on the door, and I'm screwed. I don't want to talk things out. I ruin everything.  
  
"I'm sorry," I yell into my pillow. And I am. I screwed things up.   
  
I turn my back on the door as soon as I hear it open. I do not want my father to see me crying. As expected, he was the parent who volunteered to try and connect with me on a deeper level.  
  
"Seth." Dad sits down on the edge of my bed and rubs my back softly with his hand. He doesn't see me crying yet. "C'mon, Seth. Talk to me."  
  
"I'm sorry," I whisper, shuddering. "I'm such an asshole." I swipe at a stray tear.  
  
"Shh.....don't say that," Dad whispers gently. "It's fine."  
  
"No....it's not." And suddenly it's no longer just about how I acted at dinner, it's about My Life, and my shoulders are trembling and shaking and I can't hide tears any longer.  
  
I am instantly in my father's arms, half-sitting up and half-lying down. He rubs my back in a gentle, circular motion, and whispers nonsense words in my ears as if he were trying to calm a baby.  
  
"I love you," Dad says quietly. Duh, I knew that.  
  
"I love you," I answer, though I almost choke on the words. I am no good with affection.  
  
"It doesn't matter that we hadn't originally planned on having a child. You're our son and we love you more than anything."   
  
"I know."  
  
Dad takes my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. He wipes away a stray tear with his thumb.  
  
"There's something more," he states softly, seeing it in my eyes.  
  
I nod, thinking of Summer and Luke, wild beach parties, and sitting alone in my room, trying to write the Great American Novel and forget that I am worthless to the beautiful people of Newport, California.  
  
"We underestimate you," Dad adds, a frightening degree of sadness in his eyes.  
  
I nod, feeling helpless to do anything else.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispers. He messes up my hair a little bit. Heh. Jew fro. "You wanna talk about stuff?"  
  
Obviously the stuff he's talking about is not the weather, or sports, or even Summer Roberts. The stuff runs deeper; emotions, loneliness, junk that guys aren't supposed to talk about. It's stuff that is too hard to say for fear that nobody will understand. And my father is offering to listen to all the stuff inside my head and inside my heart that I am too scared to say.   
  
"No thanks."  
  
"Okay."  
  
And I don't want to talk about it. Dad's a good guy; he doesn't deserve my hate and pent-up rage burdening him even more than he's already burdened. Neither do Mom and Ryan. All that crap belongs where it is now; inside, where it can hurt no one but me.  
  
"I'm here," he reminds me, because he wants me to confide in him, but he cannot make me.  
  
"I know," I reply, and I give a tiny smile. The tears are starting to calm down.  
  
He gets up and walks out. There is nothing more he can do or say and he knows it. And that hurts him.  
  
God, I'm such an asshole.  
  
*finis*   
  
Slightly disturbing Seth POV. He's sick of being underestimated. How does he deal?  
  
Disclaimers: I do not own Sandy, Kirsten, Ryan, Luke, Summer, Marissa, or Seth. (Though Adam Brody is welcome in my house any night.) The OC belongs to Fox Broadcasting Company, I am just borrowing it for a little while. I am making no money whatsoever off of this story. I am merely writing it because I have no life.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for some not-so-nice words.  
  
Something More  
  
By: Molly  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I don't know why I did it.  
  
Wait...maybe I do. Maybe I am sick of people thinking of me as some kind of naive simpleton. Ryan is the street wise kid who's been there and done that. Seth? He's the sheltered Newport kid who wouldn't recognize Life if it bit a hunk out of his ass. Mom and Dad have this picture of me as a pretty much oblivious kid wrapped in his own teenage world. I can see it in their little sighs of half-exasperation, half-amusement they give when they condescendingly explain to me things I already know. They think I'm stupid.  
  
Little do they know. I know things about all of the citizens of Newport that they'd rather keep under wraps. People say things around me like I'm not going to hear it, or not really process it in my mind. Maybe they just don't see me when I'm sitting right in front of their face. Either way, I know things.  
  
Luke Ward, Newport's most cherished preppy, pissed his bed every night until he was twelve. Marissa Cooper, the proverbial girl-next-door, used to make herself throw up after every meal so she could be skinny enough to please her Jenny Craig worshipping mother. And Summer Roberts, despite all her talk to the contrary, is still very much a virgin, and is very much romanticizing what her first time will be like.   
  
And then there's me. I am their secret. Sandy and Kirsten Cohen, Newport's golden couple. You couldn't find two more in love people in the state. Me? I am their accident, their real reason for giving up their lives and partaking in marital bliss. And what really burns my trousers is the fact that they still think I have no clue.  
  
It was really only a matter of putting the pieces together. Mom and Dad have this nasty little habit of getting all nostalgic and babbling on and on about the old days. When I was ten I thought all of their stories were terribly fascinating. Mom would sigh wistfully and talk about life in the back of a mail truck. Nobody to answer to, nobody forcing them to marry and settle down, and work the 9-to-5, bowing humbly before the Man himself, my father's arch enemy. They could be free. Innocently, I asked why they gave up that life for a house and a job and a boring life. And I'll never forget the look they shared; nervous, guilty, and a little sad. All hail the wedlock baby!  
  
There were other hints of course. Grandpa had his nasty habit of bitching and moaning about Dad being a dead weight financially, Jewish, and disgustingly idealistic. Mom always argued that she was in love with him, and Grandpa would raise his eyebrows and look at me meaningfully. "Really?" he'd ask, and Mom would look properly chagrined. Because, even now, Grandpa thrives on the idea that Mom married Dad not because she really found some Jewish kid from Brooklyn to be Mr. Right, but because she was doing the Right Thing, letting me, the baby in question, have two parents and a house.   
  
The last piece of the puzzle came when I had that hideously disturbing and embarrassing sex talk with Dad and I realized that people could have babies even if they didn't want to. I figured it out pretty quickly after that. Because, see, I'm not as sheltered and oblivious as people tend to think I am. They think my cynicism is cute and laugh it off. What the hell would I know? How has the world made me a hardened observer? No, I'm just trying to be a deep thinker. How silly!  
  
So that's why I did it, okay?  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was a regular dinner; nothing especially tasty, but it was digestible in it's own little way. I'd had a pretty shitty week though, for no real identifiable reason; just that crazy Kurt Cobain-esque feeling where the world sucks and you, personally, are by far the biggest asshole on the planet.  
  
Mom and Dad started reliving the Glory Days; God only knows why. I'd heard the stories about a million times before, but Ryan was fascinated by their life on the edge. I have to admit that a lot of it sounds appealing; the absence of authority, the freedom to roam, living amongst a large number of envelopes, all have a certain charm. And then Ryan asked the Question.  
  
"What made you settle down?"  
  
My parents froze up. They shot each other a worried glance. They looked at me and I was playing my part; oblivious, staring down at my plate, shoving peas around and humming softly. I could almost see Dad's look of relief. He'd dodged another bullet. I peeked at Ryan, who'd put everything together and looked embarrassed. But there was an agreement within their eyes that made me snap: Seth can never know. Sweet, little, Seth; it'd break his heart.  
  
"Me," I said quietly, my eyes burning a hole through the china plate that lay before me. "I am the reason they settled down."  
  
Dad dropped his fork. I looked up. His eyebrows rose steadily until I could no longer see them, an amazing feat if you've ever seen the man. Mom became fascinated with the fried chicken on her plate. It was quiet.  
  
"Excuse me," I mumbled, wiping my mouth on the cloth napkin and standing up. I'd fucked things up again.  
  
I walked slowly out of the room and into my own bedroom, where I collapsed headfirst into my pillow.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
And now I'm crying. Dashboard Confessional is playing in the background and I'm crying.  
  
It's not something I do often, mostly because I feel like a stupid baby afterwards, but here I am and I'm crying and I can't stop.  
  
Is it just because I was an accident? I don't know. No. Maybe. It feels like something more. It feels like so much more. The way I put up with things, people who make me feel like shit, who go out of their way to make me feel like shit; I say nothing to them. I let them trample all over me. I have no confidence. All I ever wanted was to be understood...liked...appreciated.   
  
Just once I'd like to be the one to take the first swing. Hey fag. Bam. And Luke goes down. Just to take everything out on that asshole would be so perfect. It would make things so much easier on me for one. I'm sick of being laughed at, and thrown around like I'm nothing. I just want to be respected. I don't want to feel like a worthless loser all the time. I want to be alone. Or loved by more than just my parents.  
  
A knock on the door, and I'm screwed. I don't want to talk things out. I ruin everything.  
  
"I'm sorry," I yell into my pillow. And I am. I screwed things up.   
  
I turn my back on the door as soon as I hear it open. I do not want my father to see me crying. As expected, he was the parent who volunteered to try and connect with me on a deeper level.  
  
"Seth." Dad sits down on the edge of my bed and rubs my back softly with his hand. He doesn't see me crying yet. "C'mon, Seth. Talk to me."  
  
"I'm sorry," I whisper, shuddering. "I'm such an asshole." I swipe at a stray tear.  
  
"Shh.....don't say that," Dad whispers gently. "It's fine."  
  
"No....it's not." And suddenly it's no longer just about how I acted at dinner, it's about My Life, and my shoulders are trembling and shaking and I can't hide tears any longer.  
  
I am instantly in my father's arms, half-sitting up and half-lying down. He rubs my back in a gentle, circular motion, and whispers nonsense words in my ears as if he were trying to calm a baby.  
  
"I love you," Dad says quietly. Duh, I knew that.  
  
"I love you," I answer, though I almost choke on the words. I am no good with affection.  
  
"It doesn't matter that we hadn't originally planned on having a child. You're our son and we love you more than anything."   
  
"I know."  
  
Dad takes my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. He wipes away a stray tear with his thumb.  
  
"There's something more," he states softly, seeing it in my eyes.  
  
I nod, thinking of Summer and Luke, wild beach parties, and sitting alone in my room, trying to write the Great American Novel and forget that I am worthless to the beautiful people of Newport, California.  
  
"We underestimate you," Dad adds, a frightening degree of sadness in his eyes.  
  
I nod, feeling helpless to do anything else.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispers. He messes up my hair a little bit. Heh. Jew fro. "You wanna talk about stuff?"  
  
Obviously the stuff he's talking about is not the weather, or sports, or even Summer Roberts. The stuff runs deeper; emotions, loneliness, junk that guys aren't supposed to talk about. It's stuff that is too hard to say for fear that nobody will understand. And my father is offering to listen to all the stuff inside my head and inside my heart that I am too scared to say.   
  
"No thanks."  
  
"Okay."  
  
And I don't want to talk about it. Dad's a good guy; he doesn't deserve my hate and pent-up rage burdening him even more than he's already burdened. Neither do Mom and Ryan. All that crap belongs where it is now; inside, where it can hurt no one but me.  
  
"I'm here," he reminds me, because he wants me to confide in him, but he cannot make me.  
  
"I know," I reply, and I give a tiny smile. The tears are starting to calm down.  
  
He gets up and walks out. There is nothing more he can do or say and he knows it. And that hurts him.  
  
God, I'm such an asshole.  
  
*finis* 


	2. The Morning After

Okay, I was just going to leave this as a single chapter story, but I was inspired to write a little more. This will probably end up being several chapters long. It kind of depends on how my muse is feeling. Also, please try and ignore any crazy spelling errors, my spell check is on the fritz.   
  
Also, thanks for the reviews. Some responses:  
  
Brody: Thanks, I really relate to this Seth too. I feel like once you go beneath the surface of the character, you can get right to the angsty goodness that I'm sure is there in Seth.   
  
priya: It takes place early early first season. After Ryan moves in with him, but before he becomes even remotely close to being friends with Summer or Luke. I think I put that in the author's notes in the first chapter, but sorry if I didn't make that clear. Also, in my own mind I thought that Seth probably tried to make friends in Newport at first, was rejected for being different, and resigned himself to being a loner. Personally, I thought Marissa said quite a few things that were off in that episode. Anyway, I will cover that in this chapter.   
  
Disclaimers: Still don't own a darned thing!  
  
This chapter takes place the morning after that fateful dinner. Also, it's fairly short.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
I shuffle into the kitchen, my heart pounding in my chest. I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, trying to figure out how I was going to face everyone after the whole ordeal at dinner and all. Shit, why did I have to open my big mouth? I guess the big clincher will be how everyone else acts around me. Would they want to talk about it? Would they want to ignore it? Would they want to go outside and do a ceremonial rain dance with their underwear on their head? I snicker at the mental picture, and relax a little. Humor is truly what gets me through these days.  
  
As it turns out, Ryan is the only one in the kitchen, so at the moment I'm safe. He's hunched over a bowl of Capn' Crunch, with the newspaper spread out in front of him. He's dressed in his usual boring jeans and black t-shirt combination, with that weird leather wrist band. I have to admit that I'm not totally used to having another person in the house, though I really do like having him around. It's just weird sometimes, like when Ryan drank my last Capri Sun Big Pouch. That's never happened to me before, and I was quite distraught when I discovered the empty pouch in the garbage. I've learned to write my name on all food products that I'm too selfish to share.  
  
Ryan looks up at me, an unreadable expression on his face. He does his greeting, some weird nod and grunt combo, probably a sign of respect in Chino or something.  
  
I grab a bowl, spoon, and a nearly empty box of Coco Puffs- the cereal of the gods- and plop down in a seat across from him.  
  
"Got the Arts and Leisure section?" I ask, pouring some milk onto my cereal and digging in.  
  
Ryan hands it to me wordlessly, and I began scanning the movie times. I bit my lip. A new alien movie came out last week and I hadn't gotten around to seeing it. Well, today was as good a day as any. Maybe I'd convince Ryan to go with me. Or maybe I'd just go solo, eat a huge tub of popcorn and lose myself in all the bloody gore of "Alien Death Fighter II."   
  
I glance up and catch Ryan giving me a hard look. I wrinkle my forehead and frown.  
  
"What's up?" I ask, feeling a little edgy. Honestly, his silence can be kind of creepy at times.   
  
"Nothing," Ryan replies softly, shaking his head and looking down at his cereal. He looks up again, this time to find me giving him my Evil Death Stare. "What?" he asks, feigning innocence.  
  
"Don't 'what' me Chino," I say, and he grins. It bugs the crap out of him when anybody else calls him Chino, but he doesn't seem to mind it when I do. Which is kind of infuriating at the moment, because I'm trying to provoke him.   
  
"It's just..." Ryan trails off, then drops his spoon into his bowl. "What was that last night?" He pauses, looking apologetic. "I mean, it wasn't just about...."  
  
"About me being an accident and possibly conceived in the back of a postal truck?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.  
  
Ryan grimaces, and I can tell I've made him squeamish. Ha! Take that, Chino!   
  
"Yeah...I guess," Ryan says in a raspy, strained voice. He probably doesn't like thinking about my parents doing it. I used to be that way too, but they're always kind of discreetly talking about it, so I gradually grew immune to their admittedly gross innuendos.  
  
I shrug, wondering what I can trust him with. He's my best friend, my only friend, so maybe I could open up to him a little more than I could to my father. But, would he really understand? I mean, he knows the basic gist of how Newport royalty are, but he doesn't know the delicate intricacies of their snobbery. The little things that it takes people awhile to discover. Like how their lives revolve on getting fall-down drunk and pretending like their lives are as shiny and happy as they like to tell people, and if you don't take part in getting wasted, you're pretty much an outcast. And other little tidbits that cannot be even explained in words, but are all vital steps in the shunning of Seth Cohen and Seth Cohen related accessories.  
  
"I guess it's other stuff," I finally say, scratching the back of my neck. "The life of a rejected loser is not as glamorous as it may appear at first glance. Being an outcast is a tiring game." I cringe. Did I sound pathetic or what? Need to do damage control while Ryan's still processing this information. "You know, just being a stupid teenager. Moping, angry at the world stuff." I shake my head, trying to make it seem like nothing. "No big deal."  
  
Ryan looks thoughtful as he picks up his spoon and resumes chowing down.   
  
"I wouldn't think you'd mind being an outcast." He pauses. "I mean, I thought you saw how everyone here was an asshole and just decided you were better off on your own. That's pretty much how Marissa put it."  
  
I snort. Wow, for some tough as nails car thief, he could be pretty naive. Or just thought way too much with his dick. I mean, Marissa's a great-looking girl, but she's not exactly up there on the brains scale. I mean, as much as I enjoy being psychoanalyzed by the frequently wasted, formely bulimic, beauty queen, I think I have a better grasp on exactly what went down in the beginning of my Newport life. After all, it was her boyfriend who first beat the crap out of me.   
  
"Please. I'm not that saintly." I sigh. "Look, I tried to fit in, nobody would let me, so I started spending all my time playing Mario Kart with my dad." I swallow. This is the most open I've ever been with anyone, and I pray that he could understand what I'm trying to say. "If they'd let me I would've been just as big of an asshole."   
  
"I doubt that," Ryan says, clearing his throat and standing up.  
  
I scowl and scarf down a huge spoonful of Coco Puffs. I kind of wonder if he's right. Would I have figured out the truth and just retreated into my room, leaving the jerks behind me? I honestly don't know if I would have been strong enough, and I don't want to think about it anymore. I'd rather just be able to blame all my neurosis on Luke and his band of merry men.  
  
"Morning, boys."  
  
I instantly straighten up as my father enters, hurrying around the kitchen, grabbing all that he needs for a balanced breakfast. He's in his usual suit and tie, but he looks more haggard than usual, and I think his left eyebrow is a little askew. I wonder if he lost sleep too. After all, it's not every day that he sees me crying like a little girl. I close my eyes, trying to forget about last night. Best to move on.  
  
"Morning, Mr. Cohen," Ryan greets him.   
  
For once Dad doesn't try and tell him to call him Sandy. I don't bother with a greeting. I'm not sure I could get the words out even if I wanted. My heart is pounding even worse than before. How do you act around somebody after having a complete emotional meltdown in front of their very eyes? I stare intently at my cereal, marveling at the beauty that is brown milk.   
  
"So what are you boys up to today?" Dad asks, moving around the table to sit beside me. As he passes me, his hand reaches out and squeezes my shoulder gently. I don't move.   
  
I look up at Ryan, who sees my discomfort and looks for a good answer. He notices the movies listings, and decideds, I guess, to redeem himself in my eyes.  
  
"Uh, we might..go to a movie or something," he says slowly, trying to look casual.  
  
Dad nods, chewing on a bagel. He swallows, then nudges me a little. "Hey, that new Alien Death Warrior movie came out, didn't it?"  
  
I nod slowly. I know he was just trying to get me to speak by messing up the movie title. And I know I should say something, but my mouth seems to be glued shut. Shit. I never thought talking could be so hard, but I just can't seem to open my mouth. I'm so stupid.  
  
"So...uh...you going to work today?" Ryan asks.  
  
I smile into my bowl. He was trying to help me out by making moronic conversation. Now I know what I was missing before I had a best friend. I make a mental note to let him read my next "Legion" as soon as I get it, and maybe not bitch him out the next time he gets a tiny water stain on the cover.   
  
"Yeah. Yep." Dad nods. "I've got a new case today."  
  
"Ah." Ryan nods.   
  
"It's a lot of work, but I love it."   
  
Ryan keeps nodding like a loser, and I grin just a little bit. Clearly he hasn't been trained in making small talk. Next thing you know he'll be commenting on the weather.  
  
"So...looks like it's going to be a sunny day," Ryan says, and I have to suppress a laugh. Newport days are almost always sunny.  
  
"Yep. I'll probably go surfing later." Dad pauses. "I slept in a bit, so I couldn't go this morning."  
  
Mom slips into the kitchen, and I can see Ryan's look of utter relief. I accidentially let my eyes glance over at Dad, who's giving me a gentle smile. I give a tiny smile back, and avert my eyes from him. He sighs and stands up. This time, he squeezes my neck on his way past me.   
  
"Morning, honey," he greets my mother, and they kiss briefly.  
  
I look up at Ryan and mouth a 'Thanks.' He just does his Chino nod, and I give him a little half-smile. He grins back, and waggles his eyebrows. I snicker. Ryan's not half as badass as people think.   
  
"So, what do you boys have planned today?" Mom asks, glancing at me quickly before turning her eyes toward the coffee cup Dad hands her. I have to wonder how much Dad told her.  
  
"Movie," Ryan answers, in his usual I'm-going-to-use-as-few-syllables-as-possible way.   
  
Mom nods, her eyes scanning the room for anything else that could possibly start a safe conversation. She smiles cheerfully, inspired.  
  
"Looks like it'll be a nice day," she says, smiling cheerfully.  
  
I munch my cereal silently, wondering how long this would go on for.   
  
"Been over that," Dad replies, equally cheerful.   
  
"Oh." Mom frowns, disappointed.   
  
"Hey, Seth. Um, I still have that comic book you've been on my back about me returning. Wanna go get it?" Ryan asks, saving my life.  
  
I nod, and we both stand. Ryan leans over to grab my cereal bowl, obviously trying to help me stay as far away from my parents as possible, at least until I figure this stuff out. I thought I could handle it today, but clearly I was very, very, wrong.   
  
"Don't worry about that Ryan," Mom says. "I'll get that."  
  
Ryan looks at her and just blinks, clearly not used to someone offering to make his life easier. He replaces the bowls on the table, looking violated. He smiles at Mom though, appreciating her offer as foreign as it was to him.   
  
"Thanks," he says softly, and Mom smiles warmly at him.  
  
I practically sprint out the door toward the pool house, Ryan following behind me, having aided me in my quest for emotional avoidance.  
  
Clearly having a best friend has it's benefits.   
  
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Please review, and I will continue soon. Thanks for reading. 


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for the reviews everyone! Standard disclaimers apply. Sorry if this chapter is a little babbling-like, or drawn out. I just want to make this a story with a lot of Seth/Ryan *friendship* and Sandy/Seth *bonding* So bear with me while I get through all of the preliminary stuff.  
  
Heather: If you want to write your story, go ahead. I don't mind.   
  
Read & Review people, but please no flames. I'm 15 years old, and I have a very low self-esteem. Thank you kindly.  
  
Chapter 3  
  
"I consider myself a pretty damned good judge of people, which is why I don't like none of 'em."  
  
-Roseanne Barr  
  
But now I've got to crawl to get anywhere at all  
  
I'm not as strong as I thought  
  
So when I'm lost in a crowd I hope that you'll pick me up  
  
Oh how I long to be found  
  
The grass grew high  
  
I laid down  
  
Now, I wait for a hand to lift me up, help me stand  
  
I have been laying so low  
  
Don't want to lay here no more  
  
I don't want to lay here no more  
  
-Bright Eyes  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
I flop down on Ryan's bed as he shuts the door of the pool house. I shut my eyes and sigh. Why do I always make a mess of everything?  
  
"What was that back there?" Ryan asks quietly, as if he knows he shouldn't ask.   
  
"I don't know," I groan, and it's not a lie. I don't know why I was suddenly rendered speechless. "I mean, I usually have diarrhea of the mouth, and I dunno, I just couldn't seem to say anything. Like everything that came into my head was just stupid and pointless."  
  
"That's never stopped you before," Ryan says, a tiny grin creeping up on his face.  
  
I throw his pillow at him and frown. I really don't need Ryan to have a sense of humor right now.  
  
"Bite me, Chino," I grumble.  
  
Ryan throws himself into an armchair, his eyes never leaving me. He has that look where he wants to say something, but doesn't want to say it. Over the past few weeks he's been here I've gotten used to that look, and I can't say I like it.   
  
"Look, Ryan, just tell me: did I totally blow a gasket last night?" I ask quietly. I curl myself into the fetal position. Ryan gives me a funny look. "I mean, was I just an incredible ass? What happened when I ran out?"  
  
Ryan shrugs. "I dunno. Your mom and dad kind of got quiet, then they started eating again. Then your dad just go up and left."  
  
I nod. He probably didn't chat with Mom about it once Dad left; I know he's not entirely comfortable around her.   
  
"Yeah, but was it like a major freak out episode?" I ask, leaning forward, both wanting and not wanting to hear his answer.  
  
"I've seen worse," Ryan says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I guess it's just that, you know, you always seem to be...okay with everything."  
  
I fall backward, staring up at the ceiling. The old, do-I-tell-him-or-not debate rages on in my head. Do I go into detail about my deep unsatisfaction with this hell they call Newport, with the people here, with the fact that everywhere I go I feel like I'm under a microscope? Do I explain how sometimes I picture myself in my head and cringe at what an ugly loser I am? I don't hate myself, not really, but sometimes I hate who I am. I look at the Seth Cohen that others see, and I hate that person. I wish I could explain to the people who shit on me so much who I really am, what I want, and why I am the way I am. Maybe then they'd have a little more compassion for the stupid emo nerd. It's a conundrum (Shostak!). I want the people that I hate more than anything to understand me. I want to be one of them, but I want to kill them. Does this make any sense? Eh, what do I care? Oh yeah, that's right...I do care. Screw God or Whoever made me this way. Anyway, Ryan's different from them...at least from what I can see. I still have that fear in the back of my mind that he'll become one of the Pod People, as illogical as that is. Damn. I'm so paranoid...  
  
"Seth?"  
  
I blink, realizing I'd been totally spacing out. I glance over at Ryan, and he looks really concerned. I look down and see that I've been hugging a pillow tightly to my chest without even realizing it.   
  
"Sorry about that," I mumbled, embarrassed. "Spaced out a little."  
  
Ryan nods, giving me an appraising look. He glances at his hands and licks his lips. His eyes focus on me again, and his squints like he's trying to figure me out. One of the few who has ever tried.  
  
"Why's it so weird for you, man?" He pauses. "I mean, I thought you and your parents were pretty close. Haven't they ever seen you cry or freak out or whatever?"  
  
I wrinkle my brow, wondering just what my father told Ryan and Mom when he came back from his unsuccessful attempt at connecting with me last night. I shake my head. Dad would never tell them that he'd seen me crying like a loser. He has enough sense to know that I'd kill him if he did.   
  
"My parents and I are close in the sense that we eat dinner together. We talk about Dad's new case, Newport charity events, my grades, how horrible my mom's cooking is. We joke, we tease, we laugh, and, when we've had a little too much to drink, we dress in our Sunday best and sing show tunes." I sigh. "We do not discuss feelings, wax philosophically on why the world sucks and why everyone's a big bazootyhead. Occasionally one of us, usually my affectionate Jewish father, tries to reach out and be all close and whatnot, but that never works out. Usually it ends in us avoiding one another for a few weeks." I pause, thinking about it. "Like now."  
  
Ryan just stares at me, looking completely amazed at the amount of words that can come out of my mouth in the space of thirty seconds. I guess there are no Chatty Kathys in Chino. Go figure.   
  
"Oh," he finally says, and I almost bust my spleen wide open trying not to laugh. He's really taking the silent, brooding character a little too far.  
  
We both sit in silence for awhile, and I wonder what he's thinking. I've honestly never been all that open with anyone in my life, except for perhaps Captain Oats, plastic horse and my former best friend. Not that Captain Oats really understood my problems; he never had any trouble with the ladies. Hee. It's sad how much I amuse myself sometimes.  
  
I clear my throat, needing to break the silence. "So, uh, we going to that movie or what?" I ask, standing up.  
  
"Sure." Ryan jumps out of his chair. He looks hard at me once more, remembering his duty as my best friend. "You gonna be okay?"  
  
I avert my eyes instinctively.   
  
"Yeah. No big deal. I mean, I flipped out..but it happens every now and again. In about a week or so, everything will go back to normal.." Possibly true, but it will indeed be one or two weeks of awkwardness, the rip-your-hair-right-out-of-your-head type.  
  
Ryan nods hesitantly, not convinced, but satisfied enough for the time being. He's probably adjusting to having a best friend as much as I am. Maybe it's as hard for him to trust me as it is for me to trust him.  
  
There's so much I want to tell somebody, and he's the perfect one to tell, seeing as he never opens his damned mouth. But it's me who's the problem. I can never talk about deep shit. I always choke on the words and end up talking about hoiw the government is secretly using warrior wallabies to keep their enemies at be, or whatever other stupid thing pops into my head at the moment. My fifth grade teacher used to tell me that I had no filter between my head and my mouth. I wish I could explain all this to her too. Maybe she wouldn't have bitched to Mom and Dad about how I never shut up.  
  
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I lie on my bed, staring intensly at the ceiling. I am half-buried under the covers, and Bright Eyes is blaring in the background. It's only about six, but I don't feel like doing anything else other than loafing around. Mom and Dad are still downstairs (do these people ever work?) and walking on eggshells around me. Don't know where Ryan is. Oh, well. The movie was pretty good. The alien guts were pretty awesome.  
  
I smile faintly, trying to figure out how to deal with my parents. Just the thought of going downstairs and eating dinner with them again makes my heart flutter in my chest. I have not yet mastered the art of not looking at them without making it clear to them that I'm purposely not looking at them. I always feel like that facade is a little transparent, but I don't know how to deal with it otherwise. Mom's a little easier about it; she'd probably rather we avoided each other for the time being anyway. She hasn't looked at me directly since last night. Dad, on the other hand, is a whole other story. Every time I slip up and glance in his direction, he's giving me this intense, loving, comforting, smile, and it scares the bejesus out of me. Nowhere in the Moody Teenager's Handbook does it ever tell me how to deal with the situation. Do I give him a hug? Smile back? Punch his lights out?  
  
There's a knock on my door, and I groan. It'll be Dad, of course, back for another try. Of course it's him. Ryan doesn't come up much; I suspect he is not yet ready to be so presumptious as to knock on my door. Mom just never remembers to knock. If I was a little smoother with the ladies that might bother me, but it's never really been anyone in here except Captain Oats and me, so it's never been that much of an annoyance.  
  
"Come in," I whisper, knowing he won't hear me, and knowing he'll come in anyway.   
  
"Hey, Seth," he greets me, his smile overly cheerful.  
  
"Hem," I garble. My mouth won't even allow me to perform an act as simple as a greeting. I clear my throat, try again. "Hey." My voice is low and raspy, completely unrecognizable.  
  
"So, what's going on?" Dad asks. He's keeping his distance, which is weird. Usually when he wants to have a heart-to-heart, he's sitting practically on top of me.  
  
I shrug, my mouth failing me once more. I try to avoid Dad's eyes.  
  
There is an awkward stretch of silence, which my family has perfected over the years.  
  
"How can you listen to this stuff?" Dad asks, clearing going for the light, joking approach. "It's depressing."  
  
I shrug again. Making fun of Bright Eyes will never win him any brownie points with me.   
  
"But good." He bobs his head to the music a little. "Yeah. Pretty good."  
  
"Yeah," I agree softly.  
  
"How you doing, Seth?" He asks, his eyes burning holes through me. His arms are crossed. Ah, so he finally got down to business. This was not just a social call.  
  
"Okay," I answer, because the effort it would take for me to say anything more might just kill me.  
  
"Okay," Dad echoes, head nodding. He doesn't quite believe it, I can tell. He runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. "So dinner's in fifteen minutes, okay?"  
  
I nod, and grab The Da Vinci Code off of my night stand so Dad'll take his cue and leave. It sounds mean, but I can't help it. I open up to a completely random page and stare at it intently.  
  
"Okay." Dad sighs heavily, and turns to walk out.  
  
I glance up at his back, all hunched over, and I swallow a lump in my throat.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
He freezes, mid-stride, at the sound of my voice.  
  
"Yeah, son?"  
  
Dad turns to me, and I can see the hope in his eyes. Hope that I will spill my guts to him, and he can make it all better, like he did when I was eight. I open my mouth, and the words stick to my throat.   
  
"Wha-What's for dinner?" I choke out.  
  
The smile on my father's face instantly melts into a look of utter disappointment. Shit. I can feel my eyes burn, but I vow not to cry again. I am not going to be that much of a baby. But why can't I talk to him?  
  
"Pizza," he practically whispers, a funny look in his eyes.  
  
"Dominoes?" I muster, wanting to keep the conversation up now that he's clearly done for the night.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
And he walks out, shutting the door behind him.  
  
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end of chapter 3. sorry again if it's a little drawn out/melodramatic/weird. review please, but no flames. 


	4. no title

Sorry for the horrendously long wait between chapters, but distractions were a-plenty. Here you go, Chapter 4. There will probably only be one more chapter after this.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply  
  
Chapter 4  
  
I swallowed a hearty spoonful of strawberry ice cream, keeping my eyes trained on the bowl, not looking up, not saying anything. That is pretty much how the whole meal went, with my parents and Ryan holding up a pathetic conversation. There was no banter. There was no hearty laughter. The pizza was eaten in ten minutes. All I had to do was suffer through the dessert phase and I was home free.  
  
My eyes flick up to look at Ryan, see how he was doing now that he has to be the Mr. Talkative of our dynamic duo.  
  
His face is tense, his eyes roaming all over, his back hunched. It's obvious that he's had his share of family tension. He notices me looking and nods in acknowledgement. It's nice to know that someone sympathizes with my plight.  
  
A slight shift of Mom's hands brings my eyes to her. She smiles at me, a tight, uncomfortable, but loving smile. We haven't said anything to each other than since my big hissy fit. I wonder what she's thinking, if she's mad. Maybe she feels guilty. Mothers are known to do that.  
  
Dad clears his throat and suddenly my eyes turn to him. I have lost my self- control. It's the final phase of the operation and I'm slipping. I'm doing crazy things, like looking at my parents. What kind of sick, twisted freak am I?  
  
Dad's blue eyes burn into mine, and I feel a little queasy. His smile is sympathetic, a little sad. I know he wants me to open up to him like I would when I was little, when I'd climb onto his lap and pull out the Starbust he always kept in his shirt pocket because he knew it was my favorite. That was so much easier; I didn't even have to think about the fact that I was baring my soul to another human being. (Or whatever.)  
  
I stand up, needing to get out of there, away from their little smiles and the looks they sneak at me when I'm pretending that my food is a fascinating work of art. I'm stupid. I'm dumb. I'm a baby. I'm making everyone crazy and uncomfortable over my petty teen angst.  
  
I slam the bathroom door shut behind me. My gut is clenching like crazy. The world spins. I am so going to hurl.  
  
And I do. I fall to my knees, hug the porcelain throne, and let loose.  
  
The water is instantly pink. I'm shaking like crazy.  
  
How did this happen?  
  
My stomach pushes violently on my throat. More pink-ness.  
  
There's a light knock on the door.  
  
Oh, God. I've been discovered.  
  
"Seth? Sweetie? Are you okay in there?" It's my mom.  
  
I close my eyes.  
  
"Yes. I'm fine."  
  
I want to say no. I want her to come in and rock me like I'm a baby and I can forget all about everything that happened at that stupid dinner. My mother is not the most maternal woman in the world, but when she tries she always hits a grand slam. Except in cooking. Never in cooking.  
  
"Seth." Mom's voice is frustrated; she is well aware of my blatant lies. Her hand twists the doorknob and she sighs.  
  
Locked.  
  
I hear her footsteps walking away quickly and I stand up. I flush the pink disgustingness and slam the lid a little too hard.  
  
My reflection is a nightmare. My lips are white and my face is paler than usual. Dark purple rings swallow my eyes. I groan and assault my face with handfuls of cold water.  
  
I'm downstairs five minutes later, on edge, hoping to avoid all human contact. All I need is some animal crackers and I'll be dandy. I can curl up on my bed with some Death Cab, some Salinger and edible circus animals.  
  
Sitting in the middle of the counter is a steaming mug and a silver plate of saltines. Mom stands behind it, the same tight smile on her lips. She gestures for me to sit down.  
  
"Tea," she explains quietly.  
  
I slip into the seat and take a tiny sip, wondering what the hell was going to happen.  
  
Mom drops a kiss on the top of my head and walks away.  
  
I smile. Easy and painless, no words, no explanations or expectations.  
  
I sit in silence of a few minutes, munching my crackers and sipping the tea. My stomach is calming down a little bit.  
  
"Hey, Seth."  
  
I nod at my father as he enters. I feel his hand on my back and I want to shrug it off, but I just sit stiffly and don't say a word.  
  
"Your mom told me you threw up."  
  
I nod again.  
  
"You sick?" Dad tries to look me in the eye but I'm staring at my plate. His places his hand on my forehead lightly. "You don't feel warm. Did you eat too much?"  
  
"I'm fine," I mumbled, pushing my chair out. I need to get out. Everything is too much, and I can't hurl again. Pink is an ugly color.  
  
"Why are you avoiding me?" Dad asks, his voice cracking, sounding exasperated and tired.  
  
"I'm just getting animal crackers," I choke.  
  
Dad grasps my arm. "What's going on? Why won't you just talk to me?"  
  
"Because I can't!" I yell, before I can even think about how to react. "Be- because the words..they-they don't come out. I-I try. I-I want..I want to tell you..and Ryan..Mom..but I-I just can't." I swallow. "It's too hard....I just can't."  
  
"Seth, it's okay," Dad says, rubbing his hand gently up and down my arm. He maneuvers his head and looks me straight in the eye. "I'm not going to get mad. You can take your time. You can mess up the words." His hand stops at my shoulder and squeezes it slightly. "Just tell me what's wrong."  
  
"I just...can't," I say, my voice squeaking. "I-uh, I'm going for a walk, okay?"  
  
I don't want to do this. I don't want to leave him. I want to tell him everything and make him understand why I freaked out at dinner, why I can't talk when I want to. I want to help him see who I am, why I talk so much. I want him to understand. And I know that he can understand if I let him. So could Mom. And so could Ryan. But I just can't seem to form the words necessary for the job. I can't even talk right. Suddenly I'm the stuttering mess I was before grade school speech class. Suddenly, I'm speechless.  
  
"Don't stay out too late," Dad says, disheartened.  
  
I start to walk away, then turn around slightly. I don't want to hurt him.  
  
"I'm sorry," I say, biting my lip.  
  
"I know," he replies, nodding, his face weary. "I know, Seth."  
  
I take a deep breath and walk to the door.  
  
Dad sighs and I can hear the loud smack of an open palm against the refrigerator.  
  
I run out the door, needing to be anywhere but here. 


End file.
